


The Art Of Stillness

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Cock Warming, Fluff and Smut, Oral Sex, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut, soft walker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:20:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26167804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: Even August is soft sometimes.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	The Art Of Stillness

There is zero ambiguity when he tells you the rules for this game. _You’ll hold my cock in your mouth. No licking, no sucking, no moving at all until I say otherwise. Are we agreed?_

And of course you agree because despite the seed of disappointment—you’d come here hoping to get absolutely _railed_ —something in his expression has you curious. You’d almost call it uncharacteristic, but with the number of times he’s surprised you, the same could be said of any of the last half dozen things you’ve tried. Still, this seems...softer than his usual. More sedate, almost. 

But August, as usual, gives nothing away. He just sits at his desk, opens his belt, and waits. And the taste of him is the same as always, a taste you’d call danger if you were feeling poetic, salt and blood and an undercurrent of something ferociously primal. And there’s that temptation, isn’t there, to push for more. To press your tongue flat against the underside of him, to cajole and tease until he swells thick and pulsing and you can feel him in your throat. But his hand in your hair is a warning, a twitch of fingers that says _patience. Play around and see where it gets you. It’ll get you a trip home, alone_. 

So you start by cataloguing sensation. The taste of him, the warm heft of him on your tongue, sizable even when soft. A hand in your hair, absently petting as he turns pages, the gentle, slow clicking of one-handed typing. A slow creeping warmth as your knees go first sore, then numb. And you drift, your mind falling away from the physical sensation to a gently humming blankness. It’s good, so good, relaxing to the point you don’t remember your own name or where you are until his hand presses more firmly in your hair, strokes along your cheek as if to say _come back, come back._ And with it, a gentle twitch of his hips that sends the dream slipping half away, retreating as you curl your tongue around him almost sleepily, this time meeting not resistance but encouragement. 

And _oh_ that’s good, the feel of the blood pulsing into him, the tensing of his thighs as you bring your hands up for balance. His hands are gentle on your face to guide you through the slow roll of his hips as he relishes this, as he carries this moment with him out of softness and into something more primal. Because now he pulses thick and solid, head nudging at the back of your throat until you shift the angle, swallow him down to let him in. He takes and takes and takes and you are lazy with it, with the long slow roll of his hips like a ship at sea, with the salty precum that now slips over your tongue. 

When you slide a hand away and down to relieve the ache between your legs his hand grips at your hair, but at a glance you see the openmouthed pleasure on his face, the dark heat in his eyes as he watches you swallow him to the root again and again. Right now he doesn’t care what you do; he may claim your face with more gentleness than you’ve yet seen but he’s still chasing his own pleasure. It’s selfish and it’s beautiful and you want to see him go all to pieces. And when he does it’s with a sigh, inevitable as his next breath. He shakes apart and for a moment, before he hauls you up to return the favor, all either of you does is _breathe._


End file.
